


September, 1987

by JJK



Series: Life, Interrupted [6]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo, The Time Traveler's Wife - Audrey Niffenegger
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, M/M, alternate universe - les miserables / time traveler's wife fusion, this is a cutesy chapter to make up for the last couple, young!Enjolras
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-01
Updated: 2013-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 07:33:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/950391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JJK/pseuds/JJK
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seeing Enjolras’ eyes, for they were undoubtedly Enjorlas’ eyes, transposed onto the face of a young boy – the same nose, slightly smaller, the same little crease between his brows as he studied Grantaire – he couldn’t be more than about twelve here. Grantaire had to press his eyes shut from a moment, overwhelmed by it all. So it was true then; it was all true.</p>
            </blockquote>





	September, 1987

**Author's Note:**

> This is set a couple of weeks after Chapter Two of [ February, 1999](http://archiveofourown.org/works/941375/chapters/1835699)
> 
> Thank you to [Kim](http://combeferree.tumblr.com/) for her continued help with this :)

_September, 1987 (Enjolras is 12, Grantaire is 27)_  


The sun was high in the sky, a bright white orb that blazed summer heat across the meadow and threw dappled shadows from the trees onto the forest floor. A soft breeze moved through the tall grass, rustling through the stalks and whispering through the branches of the trees. Grantaire glanced around confused. He sensed no immediate danger, which was a nice change, but also very strange. Stepping out from the trees he held a hand up to shield his eyes from the bright sunlight and cast his eyes around a meadow. Could this be _the_ meadow? The one he’d heard so much about, and still didn’t quite believe?  


He moved through the grass, soft stems folding underneath his feet. There was a solitary tree, about fifty yards from the tree line and small bolder half way between the two. He noticed a small bundle propped against the bolder, and headed towards it, using his hands to hide his modesty. If this _was_ the meadow, the last thing he needed was Enjolras to come skipping over the rise and find him naked.  


There was a drawstring bag made of waterproof polyester, inside was a pair of khaki shorts and a salmon pink tee shirt. It was better than nothing. The shorts were a little too big, and hung low on his hips, but as long as he didn’t have to do any running he couldn’t see them spontaneously falling down. There was also a flask and tin foil package which turned out to contain cheese sandwiches.  


Sitting back to lean against the bolder and dig into the sandwiches and rocket-fuel-coffee Grantaire began to understand why this meadow was Enjolras’ favourite place. He could get used to more visits here.  


Despite the strength of the coffee, he must have drifted off because he woke to his name being called repeatedly and excitedly. The sun hung lower, at about the four o’clock mark, and a blonde figure decked out in an impossibly posh school uniform was racing through the grass towards him.  


“Grantaire!”  


He sat up just in time to be knocked backwards into the grass as Enjolras flew into him.  


“Hey,” he chuckled, blinking up at the blonde boy grinning on his chest. It was like gazing upon a young Achilles; impossibly blonde hair made all the brighter from a long summer in the sun, skin tanned and youthful, and eyes brimming wide. It was beyond strange. Seeing Enjolras’ eyes, for they were undoubtedly Enjorlas’ eyes, transposed onto the face of a young boy – the same nose, slightly smaller, the same little crease between his brows as he studied Grantaire – he couldn’t be more than about twelve here. Grantaire had to press his eyes shut from a moment, overwhelmed by it all. So it was true then; it was all true.  


Enjolras eventually rolled off onto the grass beside Grantaire and lifted a hand to shield his eyes as he gazed up at the clouds.  


“I’m glad you’re still here. I began to worry you’d be gone before I could get home from school.”  


Grantaire turned to give him a confused look.  


“How did you know I’d be here?”  


Enjolras twisted and returned the confusion. “It’s in the book.” He said, like Grantaire should already know.  


“Sorry, I’m – this is my first trip here. I don’t know about any book.”  


Enjolras sat up and blinked a couple of times before a grin spread across his face.  


“I always forget that everything is out of order for you. You do look younger. Your hair is longer and less grey than last time.”  


“Grey? Oh great.”  


Enjolras ignored him in favour of digging a small leather bound journal from his bag. The red cover was well worn and crinkled; it was obviously a well-loved book. It was held closed by a band of black elastic which stretched round the front, and was almost bursting at the seams. When he unhooked the elastic and let it fall open Grantaire saw why; it was stuffed full of folded drawings and sketches. He unfolded one to see Enjolras dangling upside down from the lone tree, obviously drawn in Grantaire’s own hand with a small R and a date from 1985 scribbled in the corner. He folded it back up and replaced it in the correct page before flicking to the front.The first three pages were taken up with a list of dates and times, neatly printed in Grantaire’s very best, but still rather untidy, handwriting. Just over half had been struck through, down to _September 7th, 1987, 1pm ish_ , which Grantaire guessed was today.  


“Where did you get this?” he asked, so many different thoughts racing through his mind that he was struggled to keep up. He folded the book closed and handed it back to Enjolras.  


“From you. Well, the dates and times. You asked me for a notebook and then you wrote them all down. You kept stopping and thinking really hard, like you were trying to remember stuff in an exam, I guess you were remembering them from here. Which means this book is a paradox isn’t it?”  


“I guess so,” Grantaire grinned. “Let me see it again?”  


He was surprised by how many dates there were. No wonder Enjolras thought he knew him so well. The last one was July of 1993, which probably explained why Enjolras had been so overjoyed to see him again in ’98. It had been five years without anything. No wonder he’d been so desperate to drink in Grantaire. When he got back, Grantaire was going to apologise for being reluctant, apologise for not believing him.  


He passed the journal back to Enjolras who stuffed it back into his school bag. He’d already removed his blazer and tie, undone a couple of buttons and kicked off his shoes and socks. Grantaire stifled a laugh, pleased to see Enjolras hadn’t changed much. Even now his first port of call when he got home was to remove every article of clothing that wasn’t absolutely necessary.  


“Hey! That cloud looks like a sail boat.”  


Grantaire kicked his legs out and stretched back. “Ha, yes it does.” He tracked it across the sky, summoning up other impossible shapes, many of which Enjolras refused to see, and trying to conjure a story that might link them all together.  


After a while Enjolras pulled out his homework. It was math, which meant Grantaire couldn’t help him with it if he wanted to. Which, surprisingly, he kind of did. It was calming sitting here in the sun. He managed to get past the strange, and instead felt completely relaxed. He still felt a little intimidated by the amount of dates in the book, wary of the degree of influence he might have on Enjolras’ development, and outright terrified of not living up to Enjolras’ expectations – but those anxieties paled in comparison to the sense of comfort, and _belonging_ that Enjolras was radiating towards him.  


“I struggle with my times tables,” he admitted with a grin, knowing full well Enjolras wouldn’t believe him. But it was true, he just couldn’t do numbers. Words, yes, colours definitely. He could spin poi and juggle five flaming batons, balance on a tightrope and somersault from standing. He could paint a picture of the Parisian skyline after seeing a photograph; he could capture sun light spilling through branches and decipher the filing system of the library. He could mix a mean cocktail and hold his drink with the best of them, pick a lock and pick a pocket like he belonged in Fagin’s gang. Could recite Tennyson’s _Ulysses_ and name every British monarch since William the Conqueror. But he just couldn’t fathom meaning into numbers. It had driven his father insane.  


The sun sank lower into the sky and Enjolras began to think about dinner. He packed his things away and hesitated, reluctant to leave before Grantaire.  


“Don’t worry, I’ll be gone soon, ” he promised, understanding his reluctance. “You won’t miss much. Go on, otherwise they’ll worry and come to investigate.”  


“I’ll try and sneak out after dinner,”  


“I’ll be gone before then,” Grantaire rebuffed.  


Enjolras looked a little crestfallen, but gave him a squeeze of a hug before he dashed back over the rise towards the house. Grantaire settled back into grass, using his arms a pillow, and watched the sun sink behind the trees, disappearing as it did.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr!](http://trenchcoatsandtimetravel.tumblr.com/)


End file.
